Teach me, Maven (rewrite of Humble Interactions)
by Farnbil
Summary: Almost devoured by self doubt, a summoner reaches out for a Champion to quell his worry. Sona answers in song, the only way she can. They discover that they silently suffer alike from inner demons. Both make a resolution under the new year's moon, but words must equate action. Silence isolates them from the world, and it becomes apparent that silence separates them from each other.
1. Where the stars are

Everyone around me is only now escaping the trance of reverie and settling themselves down to sleep. I have not yet shaken off the pull of my memory towards the concert we just attended. The pervading discussion among my colleagues from Piltover always strayed to one singular thought: how does she do it? How does she hold herself up? And who does her hair? This is the discourse we juggled amongst ourselves on the airship from Demacia. What a circus we were. I ponder these questions as much as the next clown, if not even deeper still. The same question that confronted me the morning past is the same I think of tonight in this account. Who is Sona Buvelle?

As a summoner, all I knew is that she is a champion of the League. I am not the best summoner to serve the League of Legends. My skill is not commendable, therefore my name is not known outside the hallowed offices of the Institute of War. For the longest time, I found that circumstance to be most suitable. It's a miracle that I've made it all the way here to become a summoner in the first place. A miracle is what got this mess started. But moreover the factor of my own stubbornness ultimately thrust the ball over the gates. And here I am: a summoner who never had an ounce of charisma to promote myself past the middling junior level is now on track to take on Sona, Maven of the Strings, for my roster of champions. I'm in a fit of anxiety. This is too much! I don't know what will become of me. My career is on the ropes as I see it now. What if I don't make the cut? My most recent acquisition…Singed is his name. The Mad Chemist bears as much poison in his mind as he does in his body-if not more. I've become intimate with all of my champions. This case proves the practice to be dangerous. Even now, I think it would be a better idea to stop now and get to work on my newest liquid landmine project. The concept is so very genius! All one has to do is apply it onto any surface and let it dry. The moment an enemy stands on it…

No. That's a terrible thought and I will not humor it. I am housing the sadistic tenancies of a mass murderer and by my will, this shall be finished soon. Thank you clandestine lovers in business below our quarters! Your excessively loud cries of love making have hoisted me up from madness tonight. It is becoming increasingly hard to keep this a secret when I have to toss out bins of poisoned vermin from my office every week. Ceased will be any more venting on my part.

We set off for Demacia around three in the afternoon. There is an airship port within walking distance from the Institute building for official business. Quickly we were airborne on a rather small Noxian blimp designed for speed. The airship anchored down in a port right next to the amphitheater in Demacia's center after three hours in transit. I visited the city state often in my youth, and I studied there for a while in the College of Magic. That is another, more mundane story of fortune. The concert hall proper is a giant domed building like the rest of Demacia's skyline. All of them collectively represent Demacia's cultural statement to the world. To any good-willed visitors and would be invaders alike, the message is the same: Demacia is your daddy.

Inside the building every piece of architecture seemed to crush you down with their weight. Gargoyles sat in glaring vigilance, flowerpots hung from the ceiling in precarious chains, and the giant murals reminded all of us the familial values of bloodshed and violence. Only occasionally do I spot a mural depicting tamer themes. But a towering portrait of a glaring nobleman brings little more comfort and ease of mind. Especially when sitting in those small theatre seats, the scale of the place looked as if it were to come at you like the bottom of a large drop, which made for good acoustics. This overbearing mood is probably a product of Demacia's culture. I didn't expect the gilded portraits of her art to escape the ironed tinge of blood red.

The place was crowded. As if the patrons weren't rigid enough in their formal wear, everyone struggled to move their arms as they shuffled past each other finding a seat. The Institute must have made much effort in securing the spots for me and the other summoners. I must thank them along with my friends who recommended the trip. The night belonged to Sona, Maven of the Strings. Prior to this first meeting, I never seen or heard of any champion by that name. We all sat down and talked quietly over the trip and its related trifles. When any summoner recruits a champion for his or her roster, they must first acquire an interview somewhat like a judgment. It is a short formality that establishes trust and intimacy between the two parties. They're clean and easy, but require some planning ahead. So at the behest of her convenience, we met with Sona in this brief break in her schedule and talked about dates after her concert.

The massive red drapes before us were closed and the lights dimmed together with the dense ambient noise. I looked up intently, seeing the stage washed in a grassy yellow. With loud steps echoing from her heels, Sona rolled her way in as a gaseous blue brushstroke, outlined with gold. Carried aloft by magic, her twin tails radiated an otherworldliness. Her face was bold and beckoning with an aspect of young wisdom. In fact, everything about her is iridescent and flowing. Awe inspiring, heart stopping, etcetera, etcetera. Forgive me for indulging in this language, but for a presence like Sona's what else could do her justice? I was nothing more than infatuated, but deeply so. Normal man must have felt something of the sort at one point when going to her concerts-but that magic behind her music, it's so alien to me. Is it of the nature born in our animal blood that she manipulates, or a lustrous mineral that drives men to climb mountains and conquer the seas? I want to know why I am drawn to it so that next time...she will not have the best of my senses!

I am compelled to write of her song in great detail. It's a shame I'm not musically trained and cannot scribe it in the proper notation.

I heard that she improvised the whole show that night, but it sure didn't feel like it. I use the word 'feel' because 'sound' is only part of the experience. Sona plays an 'etwahl', a large stringed instrument, a bridge of strings with no frets, a beautiful instrument in its own right. She started out with a contemplative tone. The etwahl reads off the exposition to an incoming stream of music. My mind was gently prodded into a state of intrigue. Then she opened a trapdoor under my feet with a single deep and resounding chord. The progression that followed left me battered, thrown out of a strange home she only just showed me. Stuttering notes slashed at my arms and legs with a tingling sensation, leaving me helpless to react mentally. After a bit of this, a tune started to form, hesitant and hopeful. She led me up a ramp, slowly but surely and…picking up speed. Dissonance began to burst outward from within the structure. Defiance, rage, desperation, I remember gripping the armrest and sweating profusely at this point. And then suddenly it dropped, very loudly, on a very deliberate and booming arpeggio. Laying on the ground, broken, I was lifted by a misty wave of impressionist color, just inches off the ground. The last notes trailed off like light does in a thick fog. And then silence settled into the architecture, a jarring movement in its own right. I took in the air. Needless to say we applauded with great fervor.

In a room backstage the four of us summoners were to have our audience with the maven herself. We were nothing short of excited. While waiting for Sona to appear, I learned from one of my compatriots, Lucid is his name, that he was learning how to play the etwahl himself. I still wonder to what end he aspires. How could he hope to attain a power and mastery like Sona's? Besides, our duties as summoners of the League consume us, and as it should.

It does consume me.

She sat so immaculate on that stool. I could be satisfied just by being in the same space to marvel her. However, the conversation didn't amount to much because of her stoic silence that persisted the entire time we were there. Sona never uttered a single word as she sort of took in all our voices, reading our language like sheet music. In the back of my head I could feel an unpleasant tinge of guilt, wondering if we by our own fault had stifled her being under us.

I was surprised to learn that she is mute. Apparently that was news only to me, for I had marked her initial silence for an attempt at cordiality. Whatever she expressed in her performance could be taken for a voice not unlike my own. And as music, she told us a story, passing down everything we could want to know about her. I'm a little envious of her. The weight of being helpless for words my brain as I stumbled between pleasantries and jotting on a calendar rolled out on parchment. It distressed me greatly. Nothing came to mind in terms of making this exchange interesting. In retrospect, most of my nervousness was ridiculous and based on nothing more than a favor of my eye. We established dates for our individual meetings. My interview will occur next week. The summoners and I expressed how we were moved by her music. With a warm smile, the League champion shook our hands as we departed. Awkwardly, I gave her a thumbs-up as I walked out of the door. There was a slight bewilderment on her face as I ran to catch up with the others.

The rest of the night we set about finding food and drink. There was a classy place right across the street, which we quickly skipped in favor of the pub a block over.

And then we made it back to the Institute without complication. And I'm still nervous over trifles like a mundane interview. And I'm looking at my scribbling about atrocities of science from earlier. And I'm repulsed even more. Something could go wrong on the scheduled day. I might make an even bigger fool of myself. A slip of the mind could ruin the spells required of me. Worry rules all sights and sounds of tonight.

I am measuring myself on the day. Can I keep this summoning game up? Am I good enough to decide the fates of nations? Good enough for Sona?


	2. Poinsettia in Winter

We're back at the Institute again, and I am slinking off the tail end of the second to last Snowdown party. The night is cold, and all the guests have long since retired. I am one of a suprisingly large majority of summoners here without a family to return to for the holiday. With all of us, the champions, and the local populace up in reverie, the party here is no half-assed affair.

Tiredness, I plead you leave me. I can barely write after all of today's festivity. Lucid, the summoner turned musician from earlier, just came into my room with two mugs of cocoa. It's a strange thing. We're all coffee drinkers here at the Institute. It was a tough change from tea to coffee, but I've taken it in stride. Let's see if I latch on to liking cocoa as well.

I will see to it that I gather a hoard of this stuff for the coming months. It feels great to talk again. A bad strain of muteness had afflicted me since we came back. I don't recall eating anything suspicious, so the problem must have been mental. Fatigue must be the culprit, for I refuse to believe the notion that I simply chose not to talk for so long.

Definitely not possible.

For now, I recall my homecoming from Demacia.

Us four summoners touched down at the Institute just in time for the Snowdown. The fatigue of the shenanigans from earlier weighed me down so much I could have sworn the airship was struggling to stay afloat in the snow laden air. We were yanked off the craft and thrust into the holiday spirit with great haste. The Snowdown was to reach its climax in six days, and some work had to be done clearing snow and setting the scene for it. Every year without a rune war on our hands is worth celebrating. Today arrived very quickly, the penultimate party to the big one tomorrow.

From the grounds outside, the action moved into our auditorium. It was more of the standard Snowdown fare, save for Sona's gig. Being audience to Sona in the Institute of War is a big deal. As a musician first and foremost her visits to the Institute are sporadic and infrequent. There was much fanfare on her arrival, and rumors of a performance were spread around the building some time before. I watched among a large crowd as she glided through the main entrance in a distinctively festive and homely red cloak. Duchess Karma and Swain were present for a small welcoming ceremony before returning to their routine of exchanging cordial nothings and steely glares amongst eachother.

By that point I had not recovered my speech. Among the whirring noise of conversation and reverie, the alienating effect of muteness was most uncomfortable. Especially with such personalities like the champions and celebrity summoners dominating the scene I felt passed over like furniture. Perhaps if I ran around flinging tables over my head I could have started a pleasant conversation with someone while holding back fits of maniacal laughter.

Terrible idea. I do enough of that on Summoner's Rift. Here I would have ended up in a straight jacket. Trade one set of shackles for another.

When Sona got on the stage at the end of the entrance hall, everything slowed to a stop. I was so elated my heart skipped a beat (followed by an aching chest pain-don't eat too much during the holidays!) We recognized the song as a familiar Wintersday tune. "The glitter of snow" is a Freljordian love song known by most of Valoran. It's sad, slow and romantic. The melody is full of a folk spirit that characterizes the solitary Freljord very well. It goes something like this:

In the night is a chill that cuts deep through my skin as I call for a sign of love that burns within.

Now the earth spins a death that no lover should know, time goes on, and my love is lost to the storm.

Climbing high on a mountaintop, in time to see the sun. Left behind is a world where my words failed to show my heart.

This voice will cry in pain as I stand grasping for your hand. But no sound will heal my hidden wounds deep inside.

And now, while I gaze at the snow, I see your eyes twinkling brighter than stars. I'm yearning for warmth.

Where, where on this callous earth is your embrace? How can I tell you I love you?

About halfway through the audience began to sing along. I can't remember if I did so as well, as my voice could have very well come back to me thanks to the Maven. What I do remember distinctly, if anything was to become ingrained into my memory of that evening, was a single tear on Sona's smiling face. In a sort of irony, have we provided her with a voice with which she could speak to us? And did I fall right in with the rest? Or is it just me getting used to singing again? People tell me I have a nice voice.

The song ends, we're done partying, and everyone retired to their offices for a short nap before we start again. This time I couldn't catch up with her, and a part of me is thankful for that. What would there be to say? She's more than likely busy, and I am more than likely tired to the bone. Enough writing. I've a coming interview with Sona, and whatever needs to be said will be expelled so thence.


	3. First Chair

Today I am one of the many summoners to proudly host Sona in their roster. My selection is fairly small. I'm the new guy around the Institute, as my friends will tell others. During the new year party, a familiar sense of revival filled my lungs and all I could exhale was brash optimism. Sona has an army of fiercely devoted fans among the summoning community. A division of their troupe of endorsement happened to be celebrating with the rest of us at the stone garden. As we marveled at fireworks and ate fried vegetables, I brought up the subject of my coming interview. They all immediately showered me with congratulations and reminisced of their own interviews. "It's like you've known her all your life" one woman acclaimed. "If I could, I'd hang out with her all the time. But then she's mute, so I don't know."

I didn't know either, until just today. Four days after today, Sona's visit to the Institute was to end with my interview. We met for the second time outside the reflection chamber at 6 am.

Outside the room Sona and I exchanged smiles. I felt no need to explain the procedure again-she had her time with another summoner some days before and the process is straightforward enough. Caught off guard by my silence, the musician raised an eyebrow offering a queue for me to start talking pleasantries I coughed nervously and remembered why I was there. Trying to be prompt, I stuttered something like "If you're ready, Ms. Buvelle." To be honest, I sounded like an absolute tool. Still, Sona was humanely considerate after all and, to my relief, nodded her head in confirmation as if nothing was out of place. My mind was clouded in anxiety, yet felt light and airy. Like in many instances before, I kept running out of things to say. So really, my head wasn't in a fog. I was the fog, if that makes sense. Fog is the stuff clouds are made of. Up close, the sun shines through better.

The chamber is dimly lit in a familiar purple-bluish shade. In the center of the room are two seats sitting back to back. Miscellaneous plaques and notices can be read for reference if one were to switch on a few more lamps. They are purposely left dark to increase concentration. Summoners and champions use these rooms for practicing summoning magic in a safe environment. That is a relative term, for particularly volatile champions must be restrained in some way or another. Me and my colleagues jokingly observed days before that Sona wouldn't be of any danger. And to a slight hint of disheartenment from me, we were right.

We both sat on the two stone seats facing back to back. Looking over my shoulder I noticed that same perfect posture from the concert. I straightened my back and shoulders. It felt good, empowering. Try working on your posture sometime, reader. With this, I concentrated on my magic. While incantations are part of the manual, verbalizing them only serve to help one focus. It rarely worked for me-I always had trouble articulating them.

In no time, the spell was complete. I had encompassed my mind in the swirling ball of blue energy we call a 'client'. I parsed for a signal, sending rings of magic across the room pulse after pulse. When a summoner does this, they are briefly at the mercy of any mind in the general area, as they can 'catch the wave' for themselves. Sona grasped it with a surprising eagerness. This business I assumed was so mundane to her, as I supposed was with any champion of the League. At this point I precariously started to lose my physical self. Talk to any summoner about out-of-body experiences because they can describe it better than I can. You become distant psychologically, losing the body's sensation along with the sentimental care for it.

As I met with Sona's mind I expected pain. After summoning Singed so many times the sensation of scarred flesh is familiar. However, this experience was something very, very alien.

I was assaulted with an enveloping awareness of sound. What came at me first was Sona's heartbeat. Rhythmically her body acted as a metronome to a softer beat, washing in and out like waves on a beach. The walls reverberated everything, and I discovered that Sona can see it happening. As heat distorts light, so does sound distort the still air. I tried to identify that beat which ticked so harmoniously with hers. It was water, a thick liquid, passing through something muffled and coarse. Her heartbeat. I felt her voice. My mind couldn't comprehend hearing a voice, but I felt it like a dream resurfaced in memory. What she said comforted me overall, yet unsettled my nerves with a haunting familiarity.

"I hear you."

Thumping now was the sound that played alongside Sona's heartbeat. I sensed she was grasping something warm and coarse. It was my own limp hand, pulsing with assurance.


	4. Stream of Consciousness

I'm back from our trip to the Serpentine River. This cold January afternoon, our fight for the old man's shop was hard fought and won. His granddaughter sent me flowers from her town near Demacia's border. A bouquet of poinsettias sat on my windowsill to welcome me as I came home. Honestly, I've never had anyone give me flowers since I moved to the Institute. Seeing so much of the girl's own cheerfulness disappoints me that I haven't got the chance to meet her grandfather personally.

He's a watchmaker, and his granddaughter is a metalsmith. The latter is in close contact with the Laurent family and supplies Fiora with both artisanal and practical fencing blades. However, a case was made that the forge counted as a military installation and therefore should be subjected to the appropriate League imposed tariffs on arms and weapons. These taxes extended not just to the swords leaving Demacia, but the old man's watches and lockets. That didn't sit well with the not-so-well-off family, so the legal battle quickly percolated through Demacia's courts (because of the League's involvement) and within two weeks I met with the young lass in need, her name is Amatea, to set up a skirmish to settle it once and for all.

Both contesting parties met a day after that, all ten summoners selected their champions, and notices were sent out. A month later, today, I fought alongside Sona on the Serpentine River for the first time.

And so it was that I joined countless other summoners who can call Sona their own. Not in a possessive fashion-that would be demeaning. I can write another one thousand words about her beauty, her grace and what other superlatives come to mind. But I must not forget where my obligations lay. The Institute of War is such a fanciful place. Deciding the fate of nations on the line of gladiatorial battles is a very Utopian very dystopian concept that I support with my feet on the ground.

I felt so relieved that today I, for once, wasn't fighting for a cause so dire to spill blood over. I wish this were the case every match.

War and violence is a nightmare, a gag forced on a nation's people while they are deafened by a horrid dissonance, a very tired song and dance called hate. The champions who volunteer to be a part of this ritual I must commend for their inhuman conviction. It takes a champion's conviction to surrender yourself to this punishment. Among this League of Legends here is a musician. And she's mute! Who has time to appreciate music during battle? Who has time to sing, let alone have the voice to sing while it's not talking?

Of course we try to listen to the abstract ideas coming from the peace-mongers of the world. That's what I've been trying to do whenever I'm close to Sona. But my feelings are thus: she's not mute. We're all nothing but deaf. Deafened by the noise of talk. At least, I felt quite a bit like I was deaf some time before match.

Yesterday I was wrapped up in a humor of ineptitude and anxiety as I consulted Lucid, now thoroughly embedded in his etwahl practice. Over his repeating of basic chords, he told me to not worry and have fun summoning. This is from the man who swears by a philosophy of mystic fate. I nearly pushed back with the observation that I am fated to worry. Thankfully the Maven of the Strings silenced this notion in earnest.

I experimented with simply letting go and focusing on my sight. She wears her blue hair in ponytails to match her sky blue dress. Every day the noise builds on her as it does to all of us. Everyone gets tired of talking and conversation sometimes, even politicians. Sona and I went together to Summoner's Rift to breathe in the clarity of exercise.

I entered Sona's mind soaked in past tears, a mangy helpless thing. That time she took me in with a great deal of hesitation. Noting my jumpiness, she picked me up and shook me off, murmuring assurances into my head with her etwahl. The anticipation was nerve wrecking still. I stood over my conjuration, concentrating with the ten other summoners in the Institute's circular Summoning Chamber, while Sona and the other participating champions arrived at Summoner's Rift in rings of blue light. As soon as she touched down, her fingers ran across the strings on her instrument. She started an idle melody, a song of noble strength which honed our senses. On our blue glowing platform was the silent armor-dillo Rammus, the indomitable iron man Mordekaiser, the large and intoxicated Gragas, the instinctual voidling Kog'maw, and Sona. She closed her eyes and sighed contently. Quickly gearing up, everyone headed out to their lanes. A pang of fear froze me for a moment while Sona floated on, a fear for her well being, a dangerous sympathy. As I shivered in this panicky fit, Sona reached out with her mind and grasped my hand in the same manner as before. Like setting time on a metronome, she stilled my pulse with hers. With hands like those, everything is an instrument that can be tuned.

Kog'maw's summoner lengthened his leash, and the void creature merrily followed behind Sona with what looked like a smile. And then we heard the most peculiar thing to escape the mouth of the void-he began to sing! Yes, the mouth of the abyss began to gurgle out notes alongside Sona's song as we walked together. "Laaa la la la! Largh garr gaah!" No audience could be more heartwarming to perform for. Sona led him along as she played. Kog'maw began to sing quieter as we reached the outermost turret, turning into a content humming as the clock ran down seconds. Briefly exiting Sona's mind, I turned to my teammate next to me and got a glance at his face. The summoner was blinking sharply as if something were in his eyes. They were bloodshot-probably from lack of sleep. The disparity of calmness between Kog'maw and his summoner puzzled me. Behind us came the blue minions marching without a sound. They clashed with the purple minions up ahead. We could see a grizzled walnut of a man emerging from the fog of war, a soft talking gunslinger named Graves. Kog'maw eagerly began to spit at the purple minions, felling them one by one as he was bade by his summoner. I was obligated to simply wait for an opportunity to strike at our opponents. Graves fired a buckshot round at us-there was a distinct blast of sound which distorted our vision. It caught on Sona's arm and on her instrument. The pain was sobering, yet not acute. Sona's face didn't chage one bit while I frowned in concentration.

We responded by forcefully strumming a chord on the etwahl. Her mind guided me through this maneuver, and I yielded quietly. Dialogue would put us off timing and serve no end. A cone of blue magic honed in on Graves, and he staggered backwards. Sona took this opening and fired a high note that pierced his gut, causing him to bleed. His summoner backed off while Graves growled to himself. At first I thought this power was unreal. To inflict that much damage at such an early point in the match astounded me. Other summoners tell me that this ability is a major strength of hers and advise me to use it frequently. But its potency falls off later as the other champions gain power, so one must abuse this advantage early.

Graves was escorted by Soraka, a pious mystic with an extensive knowledge of healing magic. Her summoner liberally cast these spells on Graves to keep him standing. It seemed that their endurance would win out against us. Thankfully Kog'maw had brought healing potions to keep himself healthy (and to quench his thirst). We managed to push them back to their own turret, securing our small victory in the early game. Both of us teleported back to the summoning platform to recover and prepare. Kog'maw idly bobbed his head to Sona's envigorating tune. I still wonder why a ravenous being could react in such a way. We sensed his own heartbeat keeping time to a different drummer. He is a slave to instinct-yet the creature sings and dances. Is this an exertion of Sona's enchantments? Or does that same instinct drive him to take pleasure from her song?

Our dominence was felt sorely by the other team, and appreciated by our allies. Things seemed to be going well. I hope Amatea and her old man were watching today.

Then the beat changed. Baron had emerged from his slumber in the river, and both teams were eager to fell it and gain his power. As everyone grouped up in the forest, a flurry of alerts and talking took shape. Earlier Mordekaiser's summoner and that of Gragas began to spout insults to eachother. The former got royally irritated that the latter had let Gragas die one too many times. Sona expressed her annoyance through her face, and played louder in a vain attempt to calm them. They started to yell over her. While this was going on, Mordekaiser himself boomed in an echoing voice so that everyone heard. "Stop bickering like fools! Let us strike in tune to the Maven's music and not your c cacophonous squawking!" His will subdued the two summoners like with his metal fist. Vocally grabbing them by the neck, he shook them violently and threatened menacingly "We have the advantage! You will not squander our victory by making our ears bleed!" Sona retreated backwards cautiously. She stopped playing, thinking it a futile effort.

For the first time in the entire match, there was total silence. "Now...if you please my dear Sona, let us shred." Mordekaiser said, as if he expected us to find the keys and emerge from our prison of paralysis that quickly. Sona and I did so, thankful for his strong pep talk. Metal is receptive to sound, and we felt his entire body resonate with musical energy. He gave it a deep and oppressive accent. Sona smiled as she and Mordekaiser walked side by side towards Baron's nest; occupied already by the other team. I caught a sense of companionship between them, although I do not know how any specifics. Her pulse becomes slightly labored in his presence. I directed her behind Mordekaiser as we dove in headfirst to strike the final blow against the giant worm. Kog'maw and his summoner expertly did so with a single blast of his 'Bio-arcane barrage' technique, stealing the kill and sealing our victory. With absolute power flowing through us, we turned to the enemy and engaged. A parental side of us elated when Kog'maw proceeded to mercilessly pelt all of them with his caustic spittle. Mordekaiser lumbered about, practically executing each champion one by one with his gigantic metal mace. We scored a total wipe, an 'ace', in that battle. And with that the match was won in a quick stroke afterwards.

I had a brief moment to thank Sona before we broke the link, in words this time. The metalsmith Amatea was in an adjacent room watching the match with other League observers and fans. I said very little as she shot toward Kog'maw's summoner and kissed his cheeks. In no time we had to leave to hear a verdict by the League. I expected no showy displays of gratitude. These red poinsettias are all I could ever ask for. For a summoner of my skill level, it's more than I deserve.

But if Sona and I can save an old man's trinket-shop, maybe I am still of some relevance to the affairs of Valoran. Granted, the pay I received from Amatea and her grandfather amounted to only a week's worth of groceries, but what's important is that I got to test my bond with Sona. And things feel smooth.

There will be another concert later in the month, and I'd like to meet her again, one more time, just to make sure I'm not dreaming.


	5. Callback

Can't be bothered to use a lamp, so I'm sitting in front of the big hearth in the lobby. Not wanting to appear as if hogging the space, I abstained from planting myself here for as long as I can remember. But I have to take care of myself now. Just take up a few habits to keep my mind focused.

Need to stay alive and warm. For her, if no one else. Last week's trip to Ionia did nothing less than substantiate my entire life's purpose.

I came home and immediately went back to work filling out legal papers.

The day after that, I helped Lucid lift some furniture into his office next-door.

For the rest of the week I assisted with the Preseason Qualifiers as a referee.

Fun week. But the trip before was a nice break.

Everyone looked up that night. To every eye that did, it was a clear sky. The vertigo was stronger than ale, intoxicating and invigorating. While the Institute celebrated the Lunar Revel on the mainland, dozens of summoners like me made the long trip to Ionia to immerse ourselves in an authentic experience. We flew out to the coast by airship, and then hopped on a commerce vessel to cross the sea. A tailwind backed us the entire journey, cutting travel time by nearly half, turning a week long voyage into a short three day sail. Out on the ocean the stars envelope your being. I climbed up the mast and saw them all close in. I should have jumped to catch one at random, ask it to speak to me in the absence of its friends. What would happen if I had taken it along with me to Ionia? We could have sat under the full moon and basked under its light so we could experience some spiritual fullness ourselves. Then I would release the star; let it join all the others in the night sky while it shines brighter than it did before. Perhaps that one star would ignite other stars nearby and begin a chain reaction, so that one could see the entire population of stars glowing each as its own moon. They might have aspired to shine with the sun so that sailors could navigate even during the day. Those lost and world-weary could always find their bearings when blinded by a searing truth.

Stepping off the boat, I was dealing with a few searing truths beaming down onto my shoulders like a wet cloak.

The Serene Gardens is a sprawling complex of carefully pruned bushes, gnarling trees, contemplative stonework, and the most admirable wooden architecture I've ever seen. Every piece beckons you to examine its narrow intricacies through a spyglass as they isolate your awareness and suck you in for hours. The snow reflected the red hue of the lamps hung all around so that the ground took on the color of old parchment. On the edge of the gardens were vendors selling food, antique weapons and enchanted novelty toys. But the real magic worth minding was staring down at us from the sky above. The moon shone through the branches of the Great Tree, a gigantic cherry blossom tree whose bare branches were lit up by lanterns. Examining it up close, Lucid and our party walked with me as both of us shuffled through a large crowd around the tree. It sat in the center of an open circle, next to a low red building which hosted a stage. Constant performances were lighting up the night more than the lanterns. Right when the moon's arc was to cross directly over the tree, there would be a finale, presented by a special guest. Sona is arguably the face of the Lunar Revel with her traditional red dress and natural brown hair. She was half the reason I sailed to Ionia, the other half being the snow.

I went with Lucid, his daughter, and two other families whom I knew well. All twelve individuals had extended family in Ionia.

We encountered a big cast iron bell in the gardens, or it encountered us. It was stout and cylindrical, housed under an ominous wooden roof. A myriad of small studs protruded from its surface. Even in the still winter air I could feel it vibrating eerily. I knew this bell to be haunted by benevolent spirits. But what had not occurred to me is that, firstly, a catastrophic war had taken place in Ionia less than two years ago, corrupting said spirit with hate and anger and, secondly, there was a posted sign warning visitors of the previously stated fact on the shrine's entrance.

Being the inquisitive fool I am, I tapped a fist on it. A deep and resounding ring bashed my head, retaliating against my idle tampering, with a savage blow to the temples. And that is when I collapsed.

The Serene Garden is not a bad place to fall asleep in. However, going into a short blackout does not feel good anywhere. And the cold bit me harder than an angry Knocked out by the ring of a bell! This should be funny in retrospect, and in a crude sense of slapstick it is.

I had a nightmare then.

It took place in the Demacian concert hall where I first saw Sona. I was sitting in the frontmost seat. Everything was darkened by something more powerful than an absence of light. The place was afflicted with an overbearing dull red toxicity. Onstage was Mordekaiser, his glowing red eyes and noble stance pinning me down with fear. Resting atop his shoulder was the gigantic metal mace inseparable from his iron body. His voice came out slow and with a great deal of bellowing sadism.

"Suffer, then die."

Without my knowing, Singed was next to me the entire time. He laid a hand on my chest as a syringe sunk into my arm. I started to convulse violently, my skin began to burn.

"You will not take him from me." Singed snarled in response to the intimidating Mordekaiser behind him. "This world must be silenced! We must fill their lungs so they will cease their absurd screaming! I want quiet, and this man will bring it upon the whole world!"

Mordekaiser quickly raised his free hand. A metal mace like the one he wielded rose up from the ground and smashed into Singed from under his legs. The chemist let go of the syringe as he was engulfed in metal shards. He wailed in agony while writhing on the ground. In the same tone as before, Mordekaiser repeated hauntingly to me "You will suffer, then die." A sanguine red fog enveloped my head and my eyes rolled back in pain. "You will suffer, then die…" As he trailed off, my vision blackened. Slowly the pain died out, so thoroughly that the only sense of physical self left was in my hearing. It was that ringing you get in your ears when the brain has nothing to listen to.

The melody was slow to come. It was mournful, simple and unadorned. The notes tell you not to weep, but just wait and look on. I felt like I was being lifted out of a hole as the song only lasted for about a minute. When it ended, Mordekaiser finished his last statement. "Die…" Suddenly I was thrust upward into a chilling wind.

"And be reborn."

I woke up laying on a small wooden couch inside a dimly lit cabin. Tools were neatly hung on pegs and laid out over a single small workbench. A lamp glowed over a rake and a sickle. The spade smelled of old dirt and rust. I had just been born in the egg of, perhaps, an earthworm or a wasp. I lay under a window the size of a portrait frame. Outside, night blanketed the sky, and the stars were visible. I got up on my feet and felt the ground beneath me. I felt the earth spin on its axis for a moment before finding a door.

Stumbling out the door with as much dignity as could be mustered, I noticed I was still in the gardens. Red maple hung over us like a second sky. Lucid, kneeling over me, grabbed my hand and checked my pulse. He stared at me with a worried frown on his face, then turned to a man behind him and said something. Together they helped me up on my feet as another pair of hands dusted off the snow on my back. I looked to my left and saw a bun vendor hoisting my arm over his shoulder. In front of me was Lucid's daughter, the two other families, and a few robed mystics looking on.

These four bearded old men have seen their fair share of possessions recently. During and after the Noxian invasion, cases like mine spiked in frequency. Mystics dispel ghosts from the mind and body using magic very similar to summoning. Many of this profession, in fact, take summoning as a side job.

The vendor smiled when I looked at him as he asked "How much did you drink? The alcohol is pretty strong here, too much to handle for most tourists."

In a half dazed state I asked how long I was out. Lucid spoke. "For a while. Maybe three hours. We couldn't wake you up at all, so we hauled you out here to see if the fresh air would help."

He continued on to describe how I began to shake violently some time afterwards. I exhibited no sign of physical illness (one of our party was a doctor), so it was deduced that I was under spiritual possession. For a time I rested in the groundskeeper's shed.

Three hours I was under. That killed me. We missed Sona's performance! The trip was ruined! And I have to bring back that horrible nightmare to! I felt weak. My head was cloudy and empty of judgement. I couldn't be sad or angry or even disappointed. Lucid told me I had someone looking for me. Instinctively, I turned my head around.

Sona stood there smiling, her red robe speckled with white snow. The etwahl floated before her as she laid both her hands on it. Our eyes were locked. It's that intimate stare which most people try to avoid. It clobbered my chest and knocked the breath out of my lungs. This subtle expression is a hook. One can cast it out into the sea and hope for a bite. A smile in response. She caught all of Ionia together that night.

Not since the first time I met her in person did I ever hear her voice. So when she spoke to me in that untainted sound of hers I listened intently. Her mouth did not move.

"I felt the pain you were going through, yet you were silent inside."

Everyone looked around to discern who she was looking at. They were disenfranchised.

"Don't be afraid to speak, for you are not alone. You must express your love to others. Speak through the ones around you like you did through me."

By now, all eyes were on me.

"With no pride to shelter you, with no anger to raise your voice, no fear of failure or rejection to stop you. Nothing else, not I, not them, no magic in this world will ever own you again. And I am here to walk beside you toward success. Are you ready?"

I stepped forward. I had so many things to say, yet no words that I could ever conjure up to do it. So instead of offering a thank you or some profound something to tie our exchange together, I cried silently. I cried for thrusting myself into a sea of defeatist talk, going out into the storm with only a parting wave to my friends before I nearly sunk into despair. I cried for all the stars I dropped and let die in the distant past. I cried for the people who yell at everything, drowning out every conceivable form of voice that could calm them. I cried because I couldn't do anything about it.

Words did come to mind. I put them forth, as best I could through a trembling throat. "I don't know, Sona. I don't know if I can! Why me? Why pursue me? You're insane...you're misguided...you're...so beautiful."

Drained of strength, I fell into Sona's arms. Her hands embraced my head, and I felt her pulse again through her chest. The etwahl floated beside us and plucked out a tune. It was the same one from my dream, picked out of my brain by Sona's delicate hands, and it repeated for a long while. Gradually I regained my senses.

I slowly looked back up to her eyes again with my own pitiful face, lined with tears. This was supposed to be a professional relationship? Romance like this is mundane to her, I hope. Many summoners need this. Lots of champions in the League can do what Sona did for me. But am I deserving of it?

People sighed tenderly. Someone started asking around who this summoner was.

Over the commotion, I suggested we should all enjoy the full moon that night before it's gone. Turns out we had the best view of it right where we were, so we all sat down and bathed in the pale light.

We were free to say whatever we wanted. I could have tried to coax Sona to speak again so that everyone else could hear. There was so much more I should have asked. But the crowd on the snow was already openly content.

News of this event, I think, has been slow to circulate around Valoran. I am thankful for the respite.


	6. From Ms Buvelle

From Ms. Buvelle

I have been keeping watch of your recovery in the groundskeeper's shed for some time now. The concert is long past, and I can spare the time for a friend in need. I regret not seeing you there. Forgive me, too, for taking space in your journal. It must have fell out of your robe as your friend Lucid unceremoniously dragged you in here. I asked him for some time alone with you.

This shall be between only you and I for now.

What I've observed of you, unassuming Summoner, compels me to consider a dramatic change of pace. You are almost as reserved and shy as my childhood self. I hear so much song in your head, but speaking is not your strength yet. Expression hard for many people, even for artists. True expression eludes us all, I think. Music and speech both fall short in their own ways.

I cannot say I know what true expression is. I am mute after all. Sometimes I wonder what it is like to converse in speech, in a different tongue from music.

We both come from the same world, thrust into a strange new one. If you would, let us try to make our lives here. Some small steps come to mind. Take risks, embark on adventures, feel for what works and what does not. At times various situations may become awkward, and we may end up misunderstood by our peers. On the way, disappointment may hinder us often. But I have a feeling you would make a great partner in this endeavor.

I know you yearn for a chance like this, as you mused so idly to me after out last match. So do I.

There is time enough I can spare to escape my regular schedule. News of where we go will be a pleasant surprise for you. Perhaps this destination shall take your mind off of your inner tormentors for a while.

I wish it does distract me from mine.

When you wake up, more particulars shall be presented to you. Hang in there!

Forever yours,  
Sona Buvelle


	7. Forgive your Assassin

I have some time before the next match, maybe three hours. It's me and a group of Bronze rated summoners representing Lucid's nephew against Sivir's investment office. The Battle Mistress has an eye on his tea plantation.

What is the word for off-stage fright? I feel great confidence performing in front of a large audience. Staring out towards onlookers, all I see is a wall of people, distant like the sea. But when it's just me and one other, I'm treading water.

So when Sona and the League pulled me along on a trip to the Voodoo Lands, I found out what she meant by me getting out of my comfort zone.

We traveled by carriage to our destination. Dense petrified forest dominates the landscape, allowing only for small settlements stamped on bare clearings and near weakly flowing streams. The Grey Order encampment attracts students and masters of magic from all corners of Valoran. People practiced their craft in the open, making businesses out of selling trinkets and rare potion ingredients. Tea seemed to be a booming industry, with all the energetic bodies exerting themselves past their physical and mental limits. But even with a cloudless sky overhead, there was an overbearing gloom about the place. The air carried the scent of decaying wood and incense.

The Hastur family lives in a rather opulent tent on the edge of the clearing. Gregori Hastur and his daughter Annie greeted us at our passing. The father is a well aged man with a chiseled jaw and a hungry gaze. Annie perceives the world with those same eyes. Amoline was away teaching a group of novice mages.

The child eyed me with a look of mild curiosity as Gregori took us in. One could tell that, like any parents would, he and Amoline are especially proud of their daughter. The tent itself was held up by a lattice wooden frame and a pole in the center. It looked as spacious as any mansion's parlor. Magical artifacts were everywhere. Glassware, charms, gems and metal trinkets hung on racks all around. Annie's toys, almost indistinguishable from her parent's things, erupted from a toybox in one corner. A modest sized table stood in the center of their home, draped in a floral tablecloth. A tin kettle steamed over a tiny wood stove.

Annie's pyromania came from her father's side. His temperament flares up into a passionate firestorm at random. Sona gestured at something that looked like a tiny dagger, glowing blue and nay big enough to pierce through a boot. "That's my old guitar pick." Gregori warmly reminisced. "I played a bit in my rebellious youth." Immediately afterwards, she leaned her head into another similar artifact, hued a glowing orange.

"IF YE LOCK EYES WITH ANY MUSICAL TRINKETS OF MINE, MAKE IT NOT THAT ONE, MAVEN!" he cried in a booming grandiose crash of thunder. "SITTING BEFORE YOU IS THE PICK CRAFTED DURING MY FIRST DAYS WITH AMOLINE! WITH IT, I WOOED MY LADY WITH SWEET MUSIC THAT...no wait." He stopped as abruptly as he began. "Wrong pick."

He was sort of intimidating in an endearing way. Sona smiled all the way through that outburst and more. Taking advantage of a lapse in his enthusiasm, I laid out our offer over lightly bitter tea. In honor of the anniversary of the Grey Order's exodus out of Noxus, we came to set up a choir concert to perform a selection of pieces celebrating magician culture. Naturally, he agreed.

Annie's pyromania would be outright comic if it weren't so unsettling in person. "Silk smells like grass when you burn it" she chirped to Sona, pulling on the hem of her dress.

I was "the man people talk about in the reports" as Annie observed. Sona smiled in amusement, but I could only laugh nervously. Gregori hastily assured me that these reports, from contacts in the Institute of War, are only gossip. I have never been the subject of any significant gossip. It scares me just a little. Will our encounter in the Serene Gardens turn into scandal?

After smoothing out the details of our plan, we stepped outside to meet with another visitor. A bright blue parrot flew over our heads, circled around two or three times at a low altitude, and landed on a nearby shrub. It began to speak almost immediately afterwards, wailing "...Who's parrot is that? It's a beautiful bird!" Sona walked toward it in vivid shock. She looked between the bird and Gregori as it continued. "What's happening? What is it saying?"

Gregori explained that this parrot, Orsino, belongs to another resident some five minutes away. Orsino is infamous for his pestering of visitors by reading their minds and voicing their inner thoughts aloud. He perched onto Gregori's shoulder and preened himself. "I can shoo him off, but it may be a bit difficult" warned Gregori with an amused smirk.

Sona lay a hand over her jaw, at a loss for what to do (as alerted by Orsino.) A moment later, she sighed and let her smile wash over her. "It can't be helped" barked the parrot.

We walked to the schoolhouse where Amoline worked. Orsino began to whistle a festive tune during the while. The settlement wasn't very crowded at all, in stark contrast to the scene we entered only hours ago. Dust lay settled along the road, stuck in mired time. I sped the clock along by making small talk.

Thinking of the Hastur family brought a concern to mind. I asked Sona of her foster parents.

"Lestara was my adoptive mother." said the parrot. "She taught me the etwahl."

The name Lestara occasionally crossed her mind as we shared thoughts on the Fields of Justice. I never saw an identity to go with it, not even a face. "What is she like?"

Orsino made a strained craning motion with his avian neck, forcing something out. "She means the world to me. Music defines her existence as it does mine."

"Do you visit her often?"

Orsino whistled a pair of high notes as Sona wistfully glanced at the dead forest on the horizon. "When I can. About once a year at least."

I entered her mind around three times, yes, and this biographical information was readily available to me as mine was to her.

But I held myself back at every opportunity, in fear of discovering something unsavory. So I still know little of her past.

The tiny schoolhouse, built with haste and magical assistance, crept up onto the horizon. The sun hung a bit lower above us, and the day itself seemed impatient to be over with. A middle aged couple joined us on the trail, almost sneaking up from behind. The wife wore a flowery amber dress and smiled with a round face. She displayed a fountain of jewelry all over herself. The husband was a creature of modesty, dressed as if he were her shoe-bearer, but beaming with an alike smile that told of nobility.

Sona was taken aback at the sight of the lady. "Lestara?" pitched Orsino after a descending chime of notes. "No! My eyes stay partial to these old damned memories!"

Damned memories of Lestara? After sharing with us her love for the woman? It was clear to all of us (save maybe for Annie) that Sona had said something contrary to her own conscious, or grimly concordant with it.

With her eyes tightly closed, she waved her hand to strangle the bird but retreated a feather short. "Away!" Orsino barked. "Away from me!"

Gregori reacted tactically, conjuring a ball of fire and waving it around the bird's face. "You heard our lady! Retire your feathered arse back to your master's cage!" And with quite the performance from him, Orsino was off shouting "Lestara forgive me! Perdonami Lestara! Il tuo assassino ti chiede perdono!"

Sona retreated back into herself to a whole other degree. She avoided eye contact for the rest of the walk, and could only manage a weak, tired smile once we met up with Amoline. Even Annie's youthful charm couldn't cheer her up. I feel it would be vulgar to describe Sona's condition now.

The rest of the trip went without incident. Suddenly I feel there is nothing more I want to commit to the archive right now. I need to get ready. Lucid's nephew has a plantation at stake.


	8. Cantata

Sona left the Institute today after staying for three days. She came and went with little fanfare. Her matter of business was somewhat urgent. For the seriously ailing health of the League's staff, including most of its summoners, Lee Sin, some other celebrities, and Sona were commissioned to host some workshops organized by the Kinkou order. Naturally there was a high turnout.

It's part of the public health initiative that's sweeping Valoran right now. As of last year, summoners are more likely to die of chronic health problems than summoning malpractice, followed closely by suicide. No surprise. Everyone around me is old, married, and worried about their families abroad. Lucid has to smoke three different herbs a day to control his blood pressure and arthritis on top of regular meditation and exercise.

I saw Lee Sin as he led a meditation session with Sona and a group of elderly in the Rock Garden. It was a little awkward to see Sona and Lee Sin so intimate with each other after the monk's unwilling yet instrumental role in securing the farm of Lucid's nephew to Sivir. He and the summoner guiding him carried the game.

At one point, after the clinic dispersed, I caught a glimpse of Sona clutching his hands, then leaning into his chest with a sullen and morose aura. As I walked past, my ears picked up only the flowing of the moat which cuts through the garden. Sona's etwahl was silent, lost for notes as people fall into want of words. Lee Sin and Sona look perfect together. The blind monk must have a good ear for music. Beyond that, I didn't know what else to think. I still don't know what to think. I'd rather not think about anything.

I brooded over myself for the next couple hours, keeping to my room until it went dark, past dark, I lost track of time and place. By some strange happening I was outside again, watching the sunrise on the tiny veranda overlooking the gardens. It was early morning, not even sunrise. The light was a muted deep blue, obscuring the horizon under half-darkness. There was a wrought iron table and two cold chairs to keep me company.

Sona entered from the screen door behind me, quietly and without elegance. The metal chair groaned a bit as she eased herself into it. She wore a purple nightgown that camouflaged her entire body against the pre morning darkness. I was looking at Sona's floating head, a cascade of blue hair free of styling falling down to her backside. Her eyes were half closed, and she was slow to regard me at all. We were both visibly tired.

A hand crept over the cold iron surface of the table, reaching for mine. Memories of Sona's embrace at the Serene Gardens beckoned me. I sent my hand over to grasp it, but shrunk back. It was time to break off the experiment.

I keep pushing her too hard. My wits can't keep up with the beat of her music, of any music maybe. Once I see an opening, I discard all notions of safety and restraint. But that opening, more often than not, is a trap. Overestimating her strength of body, I would place her at the front of standoffs to abuse her Hymn of Valor, holding onto some vain hope that our opponents would just back off like we could if we were at full strength. Sona had not the endurance to follow through. The pain was real, yet no screams accompanied it. Even in her mind, there dropped a silence that darkened the acceptance of her next death into a tangible nightmare that buried all forms of real pain. I feel powerless to escape it, so I'm giving up.

This I related to her as we waited for the sun. Adhering to the cliche, my aching heart wouldn't hold itself together, so I let it collapse right in front of her in a bleeding mess. Sona listened with a face of sheer disbelief. The etwahl floated silently behind her, deprived of Sona's impulsive idle plucking. We both ran out of things to say. The silence grounded a wall between us.

Sona closed her eyes and her head turned down, as if she had nodded off to sleep. A glistening tear moistened her eye. I rose to my feet. She stood up after, wiped it off her cheek and gave me a pleading stare. Now it was my turn to listen. Looking into her eyes then was like gazing up at the ceiling of a concert hall. To think at one time I seriously considered pursuing her. I thought this attraction was beyond infatuation. Even though our relationship is intimate, such closeness is only part of the job. Nothing more. Even though we open ourselves completely to each other on the playing field, all of a sudden I feel further from her than ever before. It seems I have been exhausted of substance. Things are changing, and it's shown how I've overstayed my welcome. No amount of her condolence can overcome my dread of failure. I must be the first person in her career to say that I don't want to hear her again.

Sona's expression was expertly subdued. She backed off while looking at me, locking her eyes into mine until she turned a corner and was gone. Just like that. I sat there until the morning warmed the air a little. I wallowed in self pity for a while before coming back to my office to continue my work.

I'm sorry for your nephew, Lucid. I wish I could promise an end to this sort of injustice. But I fear a promise like that would dissipate in thin air, devoid of action.

PS: A part of me feels like I'm letting Lucid and his nephew down by dimming down my relationship with Sona. Now my sentiment is conflicted. I am confused.


	9. Strength of Spirit

I am immersed in other duties around the Institute. Correspondence trips are always in full drive. The League has to keep in touch with all its Champions, so every two months we send over a guy to see if they're still alive and fit for battle. Whether through teleportation or physical travel, danger is ever present. In reckless search of this danger, I signed up for all the excursions available. Many of them were at least a week away, so that gave me time to finish up the required paperwork. In the meantime, the entire Institute is boiling in anticipation for the newest Champion to join the League. A demon, from the Ionian woodlands next to the fields that Lucid's nephew used to own, faced judgment today. I want to be as excited as my peers, but it's hard to get into the mood.

Afterwards, I went to the park next to the Institute, It's a big field dotted with trees and two fountains. Mornings look just stunning here with the amber sun shining off of the dewed grass. Along the trails into some wooded areas go lots of traffic. The Institute main building and the surrounding stone still looms over the view, but this little patch of paradise is still a popular spot for picnics There were lots of crows flitting and cawing around lately. Their calls competed with the songbirds, creating quite a ruckus. A troubled guy like me could take it as a metaphor for inner conflict if I were so inclined. I am so inclined.

Swain made a visit to the League today. With the power struggle in Noxus right now, I have no clue why he siphons time away from his efforts in the capital to do seminars on battle strategy and tactics. Perhaps to prevent the Institute from interfering with his politics, and maybe even to protect himself, he keeps the high summoners in close contact.

That would explain the heightened activity of the crows. Swain's companion, Beatrice, unnerves even me.

On the stone proscenium, the Noxian general is demonstrating lane swapping in front of a circle of summoners some distance away from my resting spot under the evergreen closest to the proscenium. The best and most prominent summoners often hold seminars like this during the offseason. I recall going to several of them regularly throughout my stay in the Institute. I still have the hundreds of flashcards I made, listing protocols and maneuvers, all for a futile effort. I want get rid of them.

The crows are getting more active, flying in denser formations above the crowd. Getting a bit loud, but nobody seems to notice. Suddenly, a particularly large raven landed a few feet away from my foot. It stood with a tense regality. One of Swain's birds probably. It's holding a small package wrapped in brown paper in one of its claws. The raven cried loudly at my face, then hopped closer. I grasped the package with care. It quickly flew away, and I was left alone in this big empty expanse with someone's message in my hands. I opened it right there.

The last time I saw an Innervating Locket was in the Journal of Justice, an article pronouncing the maker's death. It was shaped into a heart, carved from purple hued stone and embellished with silver trim. A simple crown emblem topped the front. I delicately traced my fingers around it searching for the latch. The pulsated with a familiar sentimental power. The item manipulates the emotions of its wielder. It was rich and sonorous yet rang strongly with guilt and grief. It probably was handled roughly during the shipping. That's maybe why the magic was acting up. Yet I can't recall why the artifact was decommissioned in the first place.

I opened it with reluctance. Obviously the locket signified something profound and bothersome. I wasn't done shaking Sona off yet to fiddle with thrown out League equipment dropped from the sky.

Inside was a note in place of a portrait. There is little room for words, and the terse message is scrunched up like a bundle of hair. Still, the text remains smooth and flowing. Only Sona's fingers, digits that speak through strings for a living, can achieve a feat like that.

"I have another concert in Zaun next week. I want to see you again, hopefully not for the last time. If you wish it so, then let it be so final. But please give me audience. Give me this chance to be candid with you, so that we can reprieve each other from guilt, so that we can forgive each other."

I was so lost in pondering that I hadn't noticed Swain limping towards me from behind to smack my shoulder with his cane. In a flash, I was up and alert to greet him and four of his equally intimidating guards. With a wave of his hand, Swain dismissed them to speak in private. The general, he explained to me with his mainstay glare, heard rumors of a young man seducing Sona Buvelle as part of a plot to ignite an Ionian offensive on the mainland.

Obviously, that wasn't me.

There was no need to convince him. One look, he said, was enough to dismiss me as no threat to him or Noxus. I was equally flattered and insulted, but thanked him and Beatrice for delivering the locket with my best poker face.

Swain saw right through it. "There is turmoil in your eyes, Summoner. Something is amiss in your little correspondence with Sona?"

I laughed defiantly and told him that whatever was between me and Sona had ended. Apparently, most of the preceding story had slipped my tongue with it.

"The Maven never was the one to keep secrets." he said solemnly. "Of all the Ionian champions here, Sona is, ironically, the worst Ionian I know at keeping secrets. In spite of being mute and all." The Noxian put a hand over my shoulder and forcefully started walking along the nearest trail. "Did she tell you about Lestara, her foster mother?"

This question hit me like coming to the light at the exit of a cave. She didn't tell me a word about what happened to her. And in retrospect, Sona's emotional display during our last outing so scared me to the bone that I couldn't act to comfort her. Thanks for making me feel like crap, Swain.

"Your ignorance of her past disturbs me greatly. I must remedy this immediately, seeing the woman has grown attached to you in this manner. Love is a battlefield, and I make it my war at every opportunity. It's a hobby."

And so he told me of Lestara's death, and of her judgment, known only to the High Summoners. I couldn't believe it. I refused to. I hesitate to write it down, even.

Lestara was slain by the etwahl, around the time of Sona's coming of age.

"Just being near her means risking your life, Summoner" warned Swain, in a tone that suggested I would be enticed by the danger. In a way unknown to me, I was. "Think of the power and influence within your reach! You could preside over the course of Ionia's future!" Swain averts his eyes for a moment. "That is, if you don't die too early." "Think of the power and influence within your reach! You could preside over the course of Ionia's future!" Swain averts his eyes for a moment. "That is, if you don't die too early."

I said I would think about it.

Right now my head's torn in decision. Zaun is infamously dangerous on account of just the smog. I could go somewhere else and forget these worthless ideas of hemorrhaging sentiment. To risk getting my skin melted off by a wayward vat of acid for an apology? I want to believe that I can put aside this rash thought. In the summoning profession, that is the ideal.

Forget ideal. Since when was I even close to ideal? I'm packing now. I was a fool to even think twice.

Pack list:

-Street clothes

-Credit stone

-Crystal ball

-Flintlock

-Redwood staff

-Socks

Itinerary:

08:00AM Flight LOL leaves from Institute of War to Kalamanda

160g-120g League disc.

40g

04:00PM Flight YCH leaves Kalamanda to Zaun

200g-120 League disc.

60g

12:00PM Flight ASWS leaves Zaun to Bandle City

40g

2:00PM Flight FU leaves Bandle City to Institute of War

200g

Absolutely tired of apologizing to people. Outside the Institute right now. The sun's setting. I'm making the trip now, to Zaun, by airship. The locket hangs by a chain on my neck. This next meeting will be a mutual hurdle, for both of us. I've talked much of affection in the past. Nothing more, nothing less. However, maybe the following rhetoric will examine a word infinitely more powerful than that.

If I can learn what that word is, my life as a Summoner would mean so much more.


	10. Dissertation

Dissertation

It's six o'clock in Miriel's Burner, a popular cafe in the heart of Zaun's uptown. I know it's six o'clock not because of a clock hanging on a wall. There's a young man with timepieces all over his brown trench coat, absolutely everywhere, in all manner of shapes and sizes and metals. He's sitting at the counter, talking with the bartender. As I sit here with my strangely powdery mocha, I can't help but look him over long enough to make sure they're all in synch.

Swain definitely has an ulterior motive in motivating me to find Sona in Zaun. While on the way to claim my tickets, a crow landed on my shoulder with exactly enough money to foot the bill. I won't probe the question.

Zaun is a place of ultimate freedom, some say. If freedom is supposed to smell like burning hair, all the more sweeter. You can feel the freedom melting your eyebrows as you walk the bustling streets. Among the maze of pipes, shacks and small stores, of which no map can emulate, people work to their own dreams and little else. Being so occupied wouldn't give them much time to dwell on what looks to be like a gigantic shimmering orange-gray vortex in the sky. That color one would associate with a dying sunset. However, there was no sun and it was four in the afternoon when I touched down today.

As I was walking out of the airship port, I passed a bronze statue of Singed, standing tall in full armor as champion of the league in the middle of a small square. His expression let on no emotion as he looked toward a nonexistent horizon. I smiled and greeted him. It would be wrong to say I hate Singed. He gave me direction through my first years of summoning. Together, or I should say under him summoning was maddeningly fun. So rarely do I hear the word 'fun' around the Institute, it's sad. If my mental fortitude were stronger, I think I would have been gone so much farther in my career. Really though, thats not saying I condone his crimes during the war. Every emotional failsafe in my brain exclaims me to hate him and his home. But I came to pass feeling hatred. It was just after I met Sona.

A damn good thing I got rid of any hateful sentiment toward Zaun, because otherwise I'd hate the shit out of it right now.

Even here in the uptown, Zaun's "shimmer" problem is no secret. Anti-shimmer posters appear every two blocks or so. So far I've spotted five people in this cafe with strips of atrophied body tissue somewhere on them. Still, Zaunites are as proud of their problems as much as their successes. Both are signs of progress, essential for experimentation, evolution and forward motion.

The objective of my experimenting with Sona was to enrich my own life. I was being selfish, to put it bluntly. In forwarding that line of thinking, I outright abandoned her right when our relationship was about to go somewhere. My purpose now is to repair my feelings for her and hers for me. So that's that. I'll need more caffeine for this job.

There's a poster advertising Sona's concert, or rather, Pentakill's concert right outside the cafe. This metal band sings the dirges and marches of Zaun's rebellious youth. I don't know what they're rebelling against, it could be any number of things. Parents, the Zaunite aristocracy, the world itself?

What cause does Sona have to join their mob? I guess there's much ground to cover between us. So much left unsolved. By me. Asking questions to a mute is tricky business.

I remember early on, most of our conversations were very one-sided. Sona would strum a tune for me, telling of a day's progression through notes alone. Tempo and measure was sort of thrown to the wayside as melodies were constantly picked up and dropped. She could allude to material objects almost as if miming. Thanks to her, I know what a blooming flower sounds like. Most of these stories were mundane happenings like gardening and private lessons.

Sona lives alone without even a single servant to keep her company. Her vast wealth is never really apparent unless she's to show before a crowd. Otherwise it appears out of nowhere, suddenly footing the bill for her entire party at restaurants and lending money to close friends, then insisting they not pay her back. Still, these expenditures are always somewhat under the table, which sanctions the deplorable rumor that she's a serious miser.

The locket Sona gave me looks valuable enough. It would set any budget back some large amount. What photo to set inside?

If I knew my parents, this would be the place to put their faces. I don't know any of my family. Now it's a little late to start elaborating a biography on myself. I smell smoke coming through an adjacent window, and I think the others can too.


	11. The First Movement

In a darkened and ominous back alley, noticeably more dark and ominous than the back alleys of other city states, was a small slotted door backed up with people. The air was thick with youthful energy, the spark and crackle of ambitious spirit that fuels this progressive city. It smelled like a bleeding armpit.

Inside was Pentakill's dark basement of a venue. Wide cement corridors connected a catacomb of modest and bare rooms lit only by strobes and colored floodlights. Graffiti was everywhere, still letting off fumes. Left disoriented by the stimuli, some ineffectual paranoia dwelled in the back of my head. I reached the band room. It was relatively small for hosting a concert for any kind. A stage dominated most of the floor, only a single step high. No seats either. The audience was expected, I was figured, to stand and mosh together in a crowd. I was surprised to find myself not fearful of this concept. It sounded more enriching than intrusive or harmful.

I was wrong about one thing. Everybody was intruding on every part of every body. I walked in with a clean robe, and the moment I started swimming through people somebody puked on my leg. After another two minutes, I had to smother my robe because a part of it burst into flames. As I examined it amongst the antsy crowd, I realized the cloth picked up a shimmering green ooze off the ground (the 'shimmer' drug mentioned earlier) so I promptly took it off and slung it over my right shoulder.

When I finally reached the foot of the stage, my wardrobe underwent a Zaunite makeover. Smoldering holes perforated the lower half of my tunic, and the top was covered in green handprints. I felt dirty in a new sense of the word. The important thing, to a Zaunite, is that the outfit is new, novel, unseen.

The concert began with a loud cheer. Mordekaiser appeared onstage from an elevator under the deck. Just like in the poster, his muscled chest was bare and accented with tribal tattoos. I imagined something less human to be hidden under Mordekaiser's armor. He wielded an instrument that could be best described as a gigantic red axe turned into a lute. He most definitely slays people with it.

Yorick lazily grasped a more subtle version of Mordekaiser's. In place of his leather cloak, he wore a denim vest and a grimly adorned top hat, which teetered on his head. He focused intensely on his instrument, visually shutting out the crowd with his gaze locked downward.

Front and center emerged Karthus in a flamboyant and gruesome red cloak. His skeletal head was smeared with blue and white face paint. A wig of wild and flowing blue hair erupted from his cranium. Karthus held true to his noble aloofness as he floated toward the microphone.

Sona, in her measured grace, caught the audience and their passion. Picking up on this, she put on a cruel smirk under her wicked eyes. Just like on the poster. Is this the true Sona? Am I pursuing this woman? All I could do is grip the locket on my chest. And wait, while I cheered her on with the rest of the riot behind me.

Yorick strummed a stomping series of chords, deep and full of fearful burden. The crowd screamed in reverie. Mordekaiser followed with jagged overbearing notes which subjugated the crowd to jump and cheer to the quickening beat. The sound of these instruments can be best described as the essence of a beast's rage, the sheer force of its anger ripping and tearing a metallic string. Karthus grabbed the microphone and in his soprano voice screamed the title of their opening piece.

"Empire in Flames!"

Here's the first verse and the chorus:

Crushed in the dark

The city screams!

A king on his throne

Agony and despair he breeds!

Frozen in fear

Short on his breath

A king on his throne

Waits for a slow death!

The righteous prince

Rides in the dark!

Alone and weak

Searches for the spark!

Fire and rage!

Burns the age!

Climbs the heights!

Lights the night!

Ceaseless and eternal

The hellfire inferno!

It's a long narrative about how the prince finds a sorceress of fire and brings her back to the king to save the kingdom from darkness. The king steals her power and burns the entire city in a cataclysmic firestorm. Everyone dies. Great stuff.

Yorick and Mordekaiser masterfully shred sound through the air as the vibrant prince and the defiled king. Sona's etwahl was especially intriguing. The normally delicate tones of Sona's chords were amplified into searing expressions of passion which accompanied the metallic fury of the other two stings very well. In the last verse, the king clashes against the sorceress in a duel of grinds and riffs which really got Mordekaiser fired up. He poured all his molten metal heart into the final solo.

Sona responded with sweeping wails and sharps. Her eyes were closed in intense focus as she strummed through staggering melodies which exploded and died like fireworks. I stood not caught under a spell, but ignited into flame, head banging with the crowd. Mordekaiser persisted, pressing harder and faster on the assault, absolute like an executioner. Now keeping pace with him, Sona overcame him in a primal rampage of rolling anger and spirit.

And then with a long chord, Mordekaiser silenced her. Now under the king's dominion, the fire exploded through both Sona and Mordekaiser in perfect synchronization. It immolated my eardrums and made me forget why I came to this concert in the first place. Yes, it is very painful being near one of those gigantic speakers. More pain than pleasure.

The pleasure of forgetting was short lived. As the music rang to a stop and the audience applauded with fervor, all I could do is stand in contemplation. Sona smiled weakly as the band took their ovation. They left through a backdoor near the stage.

Donning my robe, I snaked my way through the crowd and slipped into that same door. The hallway was dimly lit, around four feet wide. Small doors ran along the walls with signs on them. A shady figure in a sharply neat vest appeared next to me. He had a thin build and no hair. The man examined me with a pair of glowing yellow eyes. "Ah, a summoner." said he. "I almost flung you out of here on instinct, nobody allowed here without official business. Let me get these lights and..."

The lamps flickered on, and Singed appeared in a black vest and slacks, neatly worn over his bandages. I froze dumbfounded. The tension was so thick I could almost see it. Singed laughed at this. Slowly I sighed and put on a modest grin, accepting this reality with grace. I said hello.

"Hello, summoner." Singed replied quickly. "I'm not in trouble again am I? Perhaps...if I could have your name..."

I told him who I was, without any embellishments or titles (I have quite a few by virtue of being a summoner).

"Oh?" His interest was piqued slightly. "I remember you. Vaguely. The poor wretch who almost went crazy from summoning me so often. Oh, the time we spent together..."

There was another period of silence, maybe fifteen seconds. Singed produced a flask from suit jacket and pulled down his bandages to drink. The amber liquid drained too fast for the eye to see.

"You've made something out of yourself, summoner. Now with your little romp with Sona, the press is having a hard time figuring out which gossip-monger to listen to."

I asked him about that. Singed tried to hold back some chuckling.

"The sensation isn't nearly as big as Janna's lingerie scandal, but I've been questioned by the Journal of Justice twice so far. By the way, I can't help but question you about your own...lewd secrets." From behind his bandages escaped a short but intense laugh. "Have you been keeping up with your chemistry studies? Did you finish that landmine project? Hahaha!"

There haven't been any episodes since I became friends with Sona. I'd forgotten how I wrote of it in my diary so many months ago.

"I was hoping you'd say otherwise. Did you know that I'm still looking for an apprentice? Haven't found anybody as promising as you, boy. You were quite literally absorbing my lessons! Ha!"

I laughed too, out of relief; out of gratitude for Sona's help. Singed started to continue down the hallway and I followed.

"I've no interest in any of your other perversions. I'm done torturing you, summoner. For now. What's your business here?"

I related to Singed the recent complications between me and Sona. We stopped walking in front of a door with a big skull cut from sheet metal hung on the front. The chemist listened without any apparent interest. It took only about a minute to run everything from the meeting on the balcony to the present.

"Yes, yes. I hear you" he said disingenuously. "Now you're here to dump her for good. It's the best for both of you. I'm relieved."

At some point during our conversation, Singed momentarily stopped caring about me and Sona. We stopped talking for a bit and leaned on the wall facing the door. After thirty seconds, Singed woke up. "You're the most tolerable summoner I've met. That is a very special distinction."

Right on cue, the door burst open. Mordekaiser emerged first in his more traditional metal shroud. He stopped short of us on his way out. "Mordekaiser!" said Singed with genteel enthusiasm. "Welcome back to Zaun!"

"Yes." said Mordekaiser. "We are eternally drawn to the pestilence that afflicts your city. Zaun and your...er...basement is blessed by our disease"

"Pentakill is always welcome in my home! Zaun, I mean."

Mordekaiser, after a brief exchange of their unusual pleasantries, relieved himself of Singed and bore his menacing gaze down onto myself. I gave him a reserved bow and a greeting.

Without blacking out at all, I remarked that the show was very enjoyable. The fear of him sucking out my very soul did not escape my countenance. This required a superhuman willpower-I'm not trying to boast here. Summoning him is an obstacle twice as large. He's a walking embodiment of death and pestilence.

"I am puzzled as to why your ears are not bleeding at my very presence, summoner. But know that your tribute has been received."

I joked that he was just sending out good vibes.

"I recall a certain songstress making that same remark." Mordekaiser groaned. He strode out through a door leading out into the streets and was gone.

Shortly after, Yorick emerged from the room with his leather hooded cloak over his denim vestments and his hunched form. Under his long hair and its shadow was an expression of accomplished fatigue. He smelled bad, but spending the better part of the day in Zaun prepared my nose for anything.

Grim on every word, Yorick greeted us with reluctance. "Have a good night." he said to nobody in particular.

If death is sleep, Yorick really is (un)living the dream. He trudged out the exit with his lantern lit brightly

Karthus floated out of the room with his regular shadowy vestments and his face clear of makeup. The air chilled immensely, like he had just opened the door to a blizzard. Singed appeared unfazed as he greeted the lich with a buffering forwardness. The exchange progressed quickly, almost in the same manner as Mordekaiser. Karthus gracefully crept through Singed's queries and reacted in concise yet hauntingly earnest rasps. Mentions of Sona topped off the conversation. The lich began to float out toward the exit, but stopped to turn his cryptic gaze to me. His skull was fitted into a horrific frown.

"You" he pointed. "You are Sona's tramp?"

I nodded and gave my name.

Karthus made a jerk with his jaw, almost as if to spit. "What a whelp you are. Sona has no need for a companion, let alone road kill like you. Capricious, foolish, dense headed summoner. The woman has Pentakill. We are the closest thing to family to her. Why can't you just let go?"

I closed my eyes and breathed, holding back a lump in my throat. The Innervating Locket began to pulse very strongly now, detecting something nearby. It was comforting, I felt connected to something familiar and empowering in my unconscious self. Something akin to a hug.

I told him, plainly, with finality. As much as Sona and I both thought otherwise, through all the blissfully comforting moments we shared together, and the affection she has shown me in my suffering, it pains me to know that...

"I don't think I understand her."

I turned my head in contemplation, staring at the exit. My eyes ached. "With everything Sona has done for me, I owe her my life. But if things won't work, then I can at least give her this much-an understanding of her. That's why I'm here."

Karthus raised his head slowly, deliberately. His movements pointed to every emotion and none at all. Singed took out his flask and stared into it, searching for a feeling. The locket was still beating, to a slower tempo now. Thump, thump, thump…

Five notes were plucked to this beat, and then quickly stifled in afterthought. Sona was standing in the doorway watching. G sharp, G, G sharp, C, F. These are deciding notes, an invitation to solemn examination. Free of her grim black dress and wig, she was almost back to her old self. Her mouth was slightly open, and her hands were clasped over her chest. Those subtle high class chastity in her body language were gone. Her etwahl floated aside her thigh. The three of us turned to her.

"May I kill your boyfriend?" Asked Karthus.

Sona shook her head in a chiding manner.

Karthus bowed, motioned to leave, looked back at me and said "You have a choice to make, summoner. It is yours as much as it is hers, summoner. So too is the burden." He floated away promptly.

Singed nodded to both of us. Thoughtfully, he muttered "Yes, do that. I'll be cleaning up my basement." before walking out the way we came.

And then silence. We stared at each other for another while longer, both of us locked together in this gaze. She really is beautiful. Her blue dress was slightly creased and worn. It's cut pretty low, revealing her delicate shoulders and chest. The cleavage marks the dress overall not too modest. Her accompanying robe is a lighter blue with gold accents, wispy and flowing like her ponytails. Her hair falls over her right eye, adding to the seductive, mysterious, alluring quality of her face. Yet I feel also that her features are guarded in equal force. Sona keeps a well proportioned figure, overtly organic and natural. I realize that she wouldn't look half-bad painted in some abstract brushwork.

Sona finds the lock that binds us, and smiles with reservation. I smile back. She invites me into the modestly furnished room before sitting on a red couch, noticeably unused. I follow her in, putting ample space in between our bodies.

From a table in front of the couch, she produced a pen and a tablet of paper. She wrote and handed both tools to me.

"Hello."

I looked at her. She still wore her smile, unsure and absent of its seductive charm. I wrote a similar greeting.

"Hello, and thanks again. Your show was very memorable. Pentakill and the League have a great songstress in you."

As Sona read this, her smile faded. We were school children again, passing notes. But this is an acceptable pace for now. The silence can stay for a bit longer. I was still afraid.

For the first time in a very long time, we were both ready to experience something we hadn't tried yet. Dialogue. We sat side by side on the couch, passing back and forth that piece of paper, thinking very hard on what we would write. Sona did a good number on me with that endearingly downcast face. I struggled to look at her for more than a moment each glance, nervous that I'd never be able to avert my eyes again. The maven handed me the paper delicately.

"I'm sorry I deceived you. Somehow it felt wrong to let you in on my past. I wanted to keep it out of the way, forget about the pain."

I sighed in deep thought before writing carefully.

"I'm sorry for being a fool who didn't care to ask. I was just a reckless cripple who ended up being a burden to you. Just something to be protected. I got frustrated and depressed. I wanted to show people that I could think for myself. But I'm still out of tune with the world. Anything I manage to think and communicate comes out wrong. I wanted to walk away from it all, go and disappear. Somehow I couldn't resolve to do even that. Always was a burden-to you especially."

Sona hesitantly wrote her response, a hint of shame in her eyes.

"You don't realize what an impact you've made on this Runeterra. Even within your limits, a great many people were touched by your efforts. Some you may have not even met."

"That's being optimistic." I said aloud. "A career...a life of failure isn't worth your time to fix."

Sona forcefully gave me a piercing stare. She looked into my very soul, as the cliché goes. My chest fluttered under her gaze. I bet she would be yelling right now. With expediency Sona looked downward and took the paper. Her motions were oddly fierce.

"You are no failure in any sense of the word. You are, to put it simply, a kind person. Believe it or not this sympathy, this empathy you and I share between us is powerful and sincere. That's the reason why I chose you. You were that someone-" Here she stopped writing and chanced a glance at me. "Someone I could share things with."

I blinked, a conjecture coursing through my mind. On account of her being mute and a celebrity, she mustn't experience often the spontaneous aspects of a heart-to-heart conversation. Everything is measured and composed beforehand. People and ideas pass over her like she's invisible, running too fast to stop and listen, perhaps reluctant to even get that close. To her admirers she is a distant star, beautiful from a distance, but so unreachable. We were alone. Both of us, in our own way.

Giving up some ambition to keep my distance, I shuffled over to her and handed her the paper with my reply.

"Why did you send me the locket? After what I said?"

"Because you were a comfort to me." she wrote with a look of helplessness. I terribly missed hearing a voice. I wanted to measure her tone. "Remember our first time in that dark room? How our hearts beat as one? That was the first time I felt at home since my time with Lestara. She tapped into my being and showed me what speaking really is. After her passing I never experienced it until you came along."

A feeling of grief crept over me as I read. Sona's composure slowly deteriorated at the sight of my apparent resignation. I looked down at the floor for a long while.

"...That was the music overpowering me. Your enchantments." I said solemnly, unsure in thought. "I haven't the strength to comfort anyone ..."

"No!" Her inner voice burst out of her being, full of dread and anxiety. She felled her whole body weight on my frame and grabbed my shoulders forcefully while I instinctively rode into this motion. "Lestara was the only one who would accept me-the real me! And...then the etwahl slew her. It was the instrument's doing, but I never forgave myself! Don't tell me you gave yourself to me! I do not deserve! If anything, I surrendered myself to you! I need you, just like you need me!" Silently, she breathed heavily as her telepathic voice ebbed into a painful moan. "Just stay with me. That's all I ask."

The gravity of this moment set in quick. Her deepest, darkest secret was laid bare before me. There was no room for hesitation or retreat. The weight of Lestara's murder threatened to crush her. I embraced her tightly, finally realizing how glad I was to be close to her again, in spite of the terrible act of her etwahl. Slowly, I distanced my mind from my physical self in rings of blue energy. With the last of my nerve I let my hand lift Sona's face from my chest. Her tears were dried off thanks to my robe, and her eyes were deep and expectant. I finally did it, I found my star and I won't let her fall again.

I whispered to her weakly the summation of all our endearment.

"I hear you."

Sona closed her eyes and breathed, smiling more earnestly than I've ever seen her smile before. She began to tear up again. "Now, let's get started." she whispered. "We'll go the whole way this time, no secrets. Keep me close. Just like this. Don't let go."

It's not like I can promise forever. Mortality will see to that. But for as long as I possibly can, her light won't ever be far from mine. A song began to emanate from the etwhal beside her as our faces drew closer. The melody rang with sweet conclusion, a swinging emulation of swaying grass under a starlit night. It encircled us and caressed our souls in a soothing finality as our minds converged completely, coupled with equal parts joy and pain, in a dance of exploration. But this does not imply an end to our struggle for understanding. With a long delicate kiss, and a duet of intimate exploration afterwards, we made our first steps toward a future of progress, our new song and dance, the reemergence onto a brighter, grander stage, waltzing forward one step at a time, rocking across the limitless sky to the slow beat of her etwahl.


End file.
